On home (nostalgia is a liar)

I went home today, almost to the very patch of ground where my parents raised me. What is it about the years that stretch out memories so that they have holes we must fill to make sense of things?

I fill in mine with good things that make me long for home, even from 10 miles up the interstate.

When I am lost or lonely, I drive the back road past my old high school, my church, my grandmother’s house. Or I browse the internet for listings somewhere off the main road where there is land. I dream of raising a dog there until I am loved and love enough to raise a child.

I’d take her berry picking, or firefly catching on the same Appalachian hill where I grew up. We’d look for the same constellations my father once pointed out to me.

2626134853_2daa2db982_b

Credit: lgbsneak/Flickr

But Nostalgia is as big a liar as Someday.

That boy who first kissed you, he took a wife. I heard they live in a house on the same property where his parents are. They look so happy in the Facebook photos.

At that church down the gravel driveway from your house you learned  to say the Our Father and to love God, but you didn’t learn to love your neighbor well.

They say you can’t go home again, but that’s not true. You can. But you might not recognize home any more. And it sure doesn’t remember you.

 

 

The (almost) writing process

No two persons’ creative process looks the same. Here’s what usually happens when I decide to write. They say writers love to have written, and it’s true.

  1. Get inspired to write.
  2. Pack a journal,  pen and laptop into and decide to head down to a favorite writing spot/coffee shop.
  3. Decide that, no, you don’t need to spend money on coffee when you have a perfectly good apartment with wifi and a coffee maker and you can write sitting on your own couch.
  4. Unpack your things, spread out on the couch while you wait for the coffee to  finish brewing.
  5. Remove cat from lap.
  6. Open laptop: browse Facebook and watch a funny cat video.
  7. Remove cat from laptop keyboard, admonish said cat to do something with his furry life already.
  8. Open a new WordPress blogpost.
  9. Decide you really want to go to the coffee shop after all. Get on bike and go there.
  10. Open laptop.
  11. Realize you don’t really have anything interesting to say and that you’ll probably die before your memoir is done.
  12. Close laptop, defeated. Vow to do better tomorrow.
800px-2004-02-29_Ball_point_pen_writing

Credit: Ildar Sagdejev/Wikipedia commons